


Doberman

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhade demonstrates his obedience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doberman

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to abbeyjewel for the idea and betaing!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Certain missions, the particularly grungy, unpleasant ones, are best delivered in person, when he can use his ‘boyish charm’ (as Beka so lovingly puts it) to weasel out a ‘yes.’ He comes to Rhade’s door without sending a warning and raps his knuckles on the metal, until it slides out of the way to reveal his newest crewmember.

It goes faster than anyone else answering his summons, except, of course, Rommie. He’s only half surprised to find Rhade in a state of undress—just his pants on, with a towel still draped around his shoulders. His broad chest is gleaming with beads of water—he must’ve come straight out of the shower. Of his organic crew, Rhade’s the only one that would leap right out of a shower for him. Rhade even smiles at seeing him and gestures inside with a curt, “Dylan.”

For whatever reason, Dylan does step inside. He could say this from the hall, but Rhade’s too enticing to say no to, and Dylan’s still staring while he listens. The door shuts behind him, and Rhade doesn’t step back to give him any room; they stand so close that Rhade’s bare toes are brushing Dylan’s boots. The artificial light dances across his pecs when he turns, raw muscles flexed for Dylan’s hungry eyes, and Rhade asks in his deep, near-growl of a voice, “What can I do for you, Captain?” Even like this, so casual, undressed and bared with a slick, relaxed expression on his face, Rhade puts himself at Dylan’s mercy. It takes Dylan a moment to break free of that.

Then he clears his throat and shares, “I need you down on the surface with me.” Rhade lifts one dark brow, and Dylan adds, “When we get there.” He doesn’t divulge the rest; they can do it on the way down. Rhade doesn’t ask. He just nods, like he always does: he’ll go. Even if Dylan hadn’t phrased it that way—that he _needs_ Rhade by his side—he knows that Rhade would go. He can’t help but don his own smile and admit, “That was easy.”

Though Rhade’s face remains nonchalant, his eyes flicker with amusement, and he asks, almost coy, “Did you expect it to be hard?”

Dylan snorts and half shakes his head, glancing aside. With the rest of his crew, it often is—Harper would be whining right now, Beka demanding details, and Tyr...

“You’re still adjusting from him,” Rhade concludes without Dylan’s help—they both know who _him_ is. “Your last Nietzschean fought and plotted betrayal at every turn, so you still can’t accept that you’ve already got me eating out of your hand and licking your boots.”

The wording makes him slightly hot under the collar, but Dylan doesn’t show it. He tries to laugh it off with a teasing, “You haven’t gone that far yet.”

“I would,” Rhade insists, firm. “I’m loyal.” His handsome face is serious, burning: he _would_. He turns back towards the room, perhaps to go fetch his shirt, but Dylan’s still entrapped in the conversation and speaks first.

“That doesn’t sound very Nietzschean.” Rhade pauses instantly.

He looks back at Dylan, maybe wary. He still takes pride in what he is. He tilts his chin up and answers, “I take pride in serving you well, as any soldier should take in pleasing their master.”

That’s not at all how Dylan would phrase it. Or how he’d ever expect a Nietzschean to say it. He can’t help but note, “You make it sound like you’re my dog.”

“Your words, not mine.” But a grin tugs at Rhade’s lips.

“I find that all difficult to believe.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Dylan shakes his head and snorts again; nothing’s ever easy with these people. The smirk on Rhade’s perfect features says he’s having fun with it. Of course he would be.

He moves before Dylan can say another word, sinking suddenly down to his knees, where he sits with his eyes staring up at Dylan and his dark hair tousled half across his forehead, some of it still wet and slicked back. The broadness of his shoulders is tantalizing, every muscle pulled taut as he arches, as though for inspection. Instead, he simply pulls the towel off him, revealing more creamy skin and lingering water that makes him glisten. He looks like the exemplary specimen his people claim to be. With the towel gone and only his pants covering him, Rhade leans forward, having to tilt to the side so as not to hit Dylan’s legs. It flexes and showcases the chiseled lines of his back and the curve of his spine. He bends right down to Dylan’s boot, and a pressure indents the black leather. The pressure drags down, and Dylan doesn’t need a better view to know that it’s Rhade’s _tongue_ running across the surface.

Rhade licks from Dylan’s heel right down to his toes, then tilts his head and laps to the other side, before coming back to place a long kiss to the middle, his skull digging into Dylan’s ankle. Dylan’s breath is caught somewhere in his throat. He feels like he should say something but doesn’t know _what_ —this has gone far beyond the line of duty—it’s not a soldier bowing to their captain but one man _worshipping_ another. He knows that Rhade works hard to earn Dylan’s trust, to overcome the sins of his ancestor and his predecessor, but this is so much more than Dylan would’ve asked for.

Dylan doesn’t stop Rhade from drifting slowly from the other foot and repeating the same process. He licks Dylan’s boot almost with fervor, like he _enjoys_ it, and maybe he does: he listens so well, serves so well—he really does, now that Dylan thinks of it, act like Dylan’s _dog_. This seems a dirty, wonton, _shameful_ thing, but if Rhade’s Nietzschean mind can justify it, Dylan’s not about to tell him off.

Rhade doesn’t stop, either. He laves over Dylan’s boots, going back and forth, making them shine, with his back arched and the hump of his tight ass peeking out the fallen hem of his pants. Dylan doesn’t know which part of Rhade to stare at—all of him is perfection. Finally, Dylan croaks, “Telemachus,” and Rhade stops, slowly withdrawing.

He stays on his knees at Dylan’s feet, looks up with a wet mouth and dilated eyes, and he purrs, fierce and wanting, “Do you have any food to feed me with?” It’s an absurd question, but Dylan still wishes his pockets were full of _anything_ edible, just to feel Rhade lick it out of his palms. The invitation is obvious. When Dylan doesn’t answer, Rhade pokes out his pink tongue and runs it along his lips, his eyes falling down to Dylan’s crotch, right in front of his face, so close he’s nearly rubbing the bulge that’s grown there. Dylan’s usually more into women, but his body can’t help but react to a loyal Adonis at his feet. Rhade murmurs, “It doesn’t have to be something I can swallow.”

Dylan brings his hand to Rhade’s cheek, his fingers slipping under Rhade’s chin. He _means_ to draw Rhade up, to start their mission, but Rhade purrs, “Let me show you I’m a man of my word,” and opens wide to take Dylan’s thumb into his mouth. He sucks at it, making a moan twist in the back of Dylan’s throat, and then he slides forward, like he’ll fuck it with his mouth if he has to. His eyes close while he sucks. It looks like he’s having the time of his life. The mere fact that he finds Dylan _worthy_ of submitting to makes a shiver run down Dylan’s spine. He opens his mouth, ready to order Rhade back onto the bed.

But then the Andromeda’s voice cuts in, _“Exiting slipstream, captain. We will be at Beta Mrennenimuszed in five minutes.”_ Even as she clicks off, Rhade pulls away, releasing Dylan’s thumb. Always duty first.

But he doesn’t get to his feet. Dylan nods to himself for no particular reason and says, “Right. Get dressed,” even though he really doesn’t want Rhade to, “and we’ll discuss this later.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Rhade drawls, “If you think there’s anything more to discuss.” He’s made himself quite clear. Dylan just turns to the door.

It takes a great deal of effort to step outside and wait for Rhade to join him a moment later, fully done up but every bit as edible. They head to the docking bay together, while Dylan wonders if he can fit a bit of shore leave time into their latest adventure.


End file.
